


Devils' Angels

by Kittenshift17



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Foster Care, Lemons, Polyandry, Single-Parenting, Violence, dub con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2019-10-19 07:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenshift17/pseuds/Kittenshift17
Summary: Hermione applies to foster the children of Thorfinn Rowle, Antonin Dolohov, and Fenrir Greyback while the convicted Death Eaters are in prison. The Ministry is more than willing to let her take up the role no one else wants, there's just one catch. She's got to gain 'permission' from their father's to raise the boys. And she will. By whatever means necessary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This story main contain themes such as polyandry, lemons, violence, foster-care, dub-con elements, and single-parenting.
> 
> 2) All reference to the backstory of Thorfinn Rowle being at Hogwarts in overlapping years while Hermione was there, and any reference to the library scene are the brain-child of Canimal. I use them with her full knowledge and permission.
> 
> 3) If you like Death Eater centric fiction such as this, join our FB group: The Death Eater Express.
> 
> 4) I have no children myself and rarely associate with them, so if you note anything out of character for any child in this fic that isn't feasible given their personal circumstanes, please PM me so I may better understand and represent what children are like.

"You can't be serious?" Harry Potter's voice held shock and no small amount of condemnation. Hermione Granger pursed her lips, looking at the floor for a long moment in silence.

"This is madness," Ronald Weasley declared, his tone weighing more anger than shock.

"Surely you're joking, Hermione," Harry went on. "You can't… I mean, do you understand what you're proposing? What you're suggesting?"

"You don't know the first thing about children," Ron spat. "Especially not magical children."

Hermione pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes at the floor for that little dig at her heritage. He'd been making nasty little comments like that since their romantic relationship had fizzled before it even had a chance to really begin. Not that Hermione lamented its loss. Without the war hanging over their heads, she and Ronald Weasley had little in common, and less to discuss.

"Are you finished?" Hermione asked the pair of them when they stood, finally silent.

"Why would you want to do this, Hermione?" Harry asked her, frowning when she looked up to meet his emerald gaze.

"You know why," Hermione told him sternly.

"You aren't responsible for shouldering every injustice of the wizarding world, Hermione," Ron growled. "First it was house-elves. Then it was werewolves, even after Remus died. Centaurs, Giants, Faeries, and bloody Squibs. But this is going too far! They're the children of  _Death Eaters_ , Hermione. Do you get that? You'd be taking in children – magical children – whose parents are convicted Death Eaters. The likes of Antonin Dolohov - the bloke who almost murdered you. Fenrir bloody Greyback - a known rapist, cannibal and all-around sociopath. These kids are the ill-gotten devil-spawn of the foulest people on the planet!"

Hermione stamped her foot, her eyes suddenly blazing.

"Why don't you understand that every word of your argument is exactly why I  _want_  to help these children, Ronald?" Hermione demanded. "Listen to what you're saying! We fought a war over the idea discrimination based on one's bloodlines and who their parents are, and yet you stand there, condemning innocent children for the unfortunate fact that bad people were their sperm donors."

Ron recoiled slightly at the venom in her tone, her mention of sperm, and likely, the fact that he knew on some level that she was right.

"They're just kids, Ron. Little children who need someone to look after them because their parents are dead, or are rotting in cells in Azkaban for their crimes during the war. They can't help who their fathers happen to be. They can't help being the offspring of bad men who forced themselves on women that refuse to raise their rape-babies. And yes, I know all too well exactly what they're being called, and I think it's despicable! We went to war because the likes of some of these men wanted to say people like me didn't deserve to live because of who  _my_  parents are. And now you want to say the same about kids who had the misfortune of having a Death Eater for a father."

"Well, it's the truth," Ron said bitterly. "Do you really think people won't hold their fathers' crimes against them?"

"I know they will. That's why no one wants to adopt them or foster them, Ron. No one wants to put their hand up to raise the children of wicked men. But _someone_  has to. And that someone will be me."

"Hermione, you're barely an adult yourself. What business have you got raising kids?" Harry demanded, frowning in frustration.

"I'm old enough to be granted custody, Harry, and it looks like I'm the only one willing to stick her hand up and raise them. The only one not wanting to do so to get back at their fathers or to use them for their own nefarious purposes, anyway," Hermione replied. "Nothing either of you say is going to talk me out of this. I'd appreciate your support, but if you can't give it to me, I'll do this on my own."

"Fine!" Ron snarled. "When you realise that you're fucking up your entire life up for the sake of blokes who want you dead, you know where to find me."

With that, Ron Disapparated and Hermione scowled in fury. She turned her gaze on Harry, awaiting his decision.

"I…" Harry sighed heavily for a moment, looking down at his feet. "I can't say I agree with your decision, Hermione. Ron's right. I know you're trying to do a decent and noble thing, but I agree that you're trying to help men who'd sooner spit on you than thank you."

Hermione frowned sadly at his words, knowing they were probably true.

"That being said," Harry said softly. "I can't abandon you, Hermione. I won't. If this is the decision you want to make, I'll support you. If you really want to raise the unfortunate souls unlucky enough to call a Death Eater 'Dad', well, I guess I'll help you."

"You don't have to… you know, move in with me or anything, Harry," Hermione told him, smiling. "I'm not asking you to shoulder this responsibility with me. But I'd appreciate being able to come to you when they drive me mad enough to pull my hair out. They're just kids. I don't even know if the Ministry will grant me custody, to be honest."

"You'll need to be able to show that you can support them, Hermione," Harry told her. "You'll be given allowances, I imagine, both from the Ministry and from the bank vaults of those Death Eaters whose children you raise. But you'll have to show that you can provide them a stable home environment."

"I know," Hermione nodded. "That's fine. I can do that. I've got plenty of savings and my house is big enough."

"You live in a tiny cottage. It's barely big enough for you," Harry protested, laughing a bit.

"I expanded it," Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know how many of these kids need a home, but I have enough space for at least three, more if need be. I've got a nice private cottage far away from the prying eyes of the public where these kids won't be hounded because their parents did terrible things to the wizarding world."

Harry nodded slowly.

"I don't know if they'll let you do it alone, love," Harry frowned. "You're single. They might argue that a lack of a father figure isn't healthy."

"Right now, they don't seem to have many other options, Harry," Hermione sighed. "Honestly, the last time I asked about it at the Ministry, there had only been one applicant and it was by a man who is known for trafficking magical creatures, illegal goods, and probably people, too. Merlin knows what he'd do to a child. Especially a child no one else gives a damn about."

Harry nodded.

"Well, if you need to… you know… claim that you can give them a stable home with a Mum and a Dad… I'm available."

"Are you offering to date me, Harry Potter?" Hermione asked, her eyes widening even as she fought a grin.

Harry blushed before giving her a little shove.

"Don't do that," he protested. "You know I didn't mean… Bloody hell!"

Hermione began to laugh. There had been a moment during the Horcrux hunt – an all-time low for both of them following their defeat in Godric's Hollow – when they'd turned to one another for comfort and just to feel something good, just for a little while. Hermione wouldn't say she regretted sleeping with Harry, but it certainly made things awkward every now and then. They'd both been in love with other people, hurting, and simply the one person there for the other at the time.

"Honestly, you shag a bloke one time," Hermione teased, wrapping her arms around Harry's midsection and listening to him laugh with her when he hugged her in return.

"Yeah, well," Harry muttered. "I just… you know I'm always here for you, Hermione. Whatever you need. Even if what you need is for me to play Daddy to Death Eater spawn, or to pretend to be your boyfriend."

"Ginny would have a fit if she could hear you now," Hermione told him.

"Ginny's got issues that I can't help her with," Harry replied softly.

Hermione leaned into her best friend a little more, breathing in the familiar treacle and broom-polish scent of him. Harry and Ginny's relationship had fizzled much the way Hermione's had with Ron. Everyone was simply too broken after the war. Hermione buried her issues with life in the causes of others, championing every mistreated, downtrodden and abused race of creature, being or beast.

Harry worked out his problems with life on his broomstick, having turned down formal Auror training once all the Death Eaters had been rounded up and instead accepting an offer to play for Puddlemere United with Oliver Wood. Ginny had been forced by her mother to return to Hogwarts, where she pouted and dated too many boys who weren't Harry before joining the Harpies.

Ron worked out his frustrations with life in Auror training, despite not having Harry alongside him. Hermione suspected it wasn't going as well as he'd hoped.

"Have you thought about dating someone new?" Hermione asked him, leaning against him and simply enjoying the feel of being held.

"You know anyone who doesn't want to date me for defeating Tom? Or because I'm a professional Quidditch player? Or because I'm the bloody Chosen One?" Harry grumbled. "Pretty sure Ginny was my only hope, and that worked out about as well as trying to teach a dragon to do the Mamba."

Hermione snickered.

"Besides," Harry went on. "You can't talk. When was the last time you went on a date, Miss Granger?"

"Urgh, don't call me that. I feel like I'm back at school," Hermione grumbled. "And we're not going to discuss my love life."

"Because you don't have one," Harry needled.

"Hush up. I don't need a man clogging up my bed-space and leaving his beard-hair on my bathroom sink. Besides, who's going to take me when I'm about to foster the children of several known criminals?"

"Maybe we  _should_  date," Harry muttered into her hair.

"Because the sex was so great the first time?" Hermione deadpanned.

"Hey!" Harry protested. "I didn't hear you complaining at the time, Hermione."

Hermione blushed. No, she hadn't complained at the time.

"I had more pressing things on my mind," Hermione argued.

"Are you saying I was rubbish? Because I might've been basing my prowess as a man on rocking your world, woman," Harry told her.

Hermione began to laugh.

"Yeah, right," she rolled her eyes, pulling back from him and crossing the kitchen of Grimmauld Place to make them both a cup of tea.

"I don't have any teabags left," Harry warned.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Hermione exclaimed. "How do you actually function without me picking up after you, Potter?"

"Poorly," Harry admitted.

"Come on, we're going to my place," she told him, reaching for his hand. "Doesn't have  _teabags_ … what sort of barbarian actually lets himself run out of teabags?"

They Disapparated with a crack, Hermione holding Harry's hand until they landed inside her cottage in the highlands of Scotland. It bordered onto a forest on one side, and wasn't far from a small loch on another. She'd have to ward it better to ensure the children she fostered wouldn't wander off when she wasn't looking.

Harry was chuckling at the way she muttered to herself as she put the jug on and began fixing up the teapot to brew a nice strong cup of tea.

"I always forget how nice it is here," Harry murmured, peering out the window and out across her overgrown backyard and to the loch beyond it.

"You don't visit me often enough," Hermione admonished, moving over to stand beside him while they waited for the tea to steep.

"You never answered my question, love," Harry murmured, taking her hand and sliding his fingers through hers absently as he looked out the window.

"Which one?" Hermione frowned.

"Was it rubbish?" he asked. "I mean, I didn't think so at the time, but we were both pretty low. Honestly, in my head I remember it being bloody amazing because it blocked out everything else for a little while."

Hermione laid her head on his shoulder, frowning slightly as she thought about it.

"I didn't have a lot of experience to compare it to," she admitted. "Up until that point I'd only shagged Viktor, which admittedly, hurt the first few times. After that it was…well, I suppose it was good with him. And you're right. I remember our encounter the same way, but how much of that was sexual compatibility or skill as opposed to emotional release and a distraction from how much we were both hurting, is unclear."

Harry dropped a kiss to the top of her head fondly for her honesty.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he asked softly.

"Always," Hermione smiled.

"Ginny was rubbish," Harry told her. "She just… I feel like a bastard for saying so, but honestly she just laid there and wanted to stare at me. It creeped me out so bad that I… um… faked finishing with her just so we could stop."

Hermione's eyes widened before she lifted her head to look at him.

"Oh my, gosh! Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, unsure if she should blush or laugh.

"Don't tell her I told you, please? Blimey, don't tell her I said a bloody word, or that I faked it. She'd kill me."

Hermione began to laugh as she poured them both a cup of tea.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked in return.

"If you say Ron was rubbish too, I might actually begin to worry for the future of the Weasley bloodline," Harry warned her.

Hermione snickered.

"He wasn't rubbish," Hermione rolled her eyes, levitating their cups out into the backyard and over to the pair of banana chairs she'd bought to lounge in the rare patches of sunlight this far North. "He just… tried too hard. You know? I mean, he'd obviously had a lot of practice with Lavender before crawling into bed with me, but he… honestly, it made me a bit uncomfortable the way he was always wanting to shift me to some new position if I didn't start moaning within the first three strokes."

"At least he moved," Harry replied.

"Gods, we're so awful, laughing at our two closest friends this way," Hermione said, unable to help her giggle.

"No, we're not," Harry shook his head. "We're allowed to say bad things about them because we dated them. If we were bad mouthing them as just our friends, that'd be another matter. But we're not. We dated them, trash talk is allowed."

Hermione sighed contentedly as she sipped her tea. Harry dropped into one of the banana chairs and Hermione squeaked when he reached for her hand, pulling her down to squeeze onto it next to him, rather than having her sit in the second chair. She liked the easy comfort she always felt with Harry. She never felt like she had to go out of her way to make conversation and she rarely ever felt awkward with him.

"I've missed this," she told him softly, laying her cheek on his chest and cuddling into his side.

"Snuggling me?" he asked.

"That too, but I meant that I've missed having you all to myself. I like that I can just sit with you and cuddle you or share a joke with you and call you a git for running out of teabags and you always let me," Hermione whispered.

Harry pressed another kiss to the top of her head.

"I've missed it, too. When we were on the run together, just the two of us, I was always worrying about finding the next Horcrux, and who might be dying the longer we took, and if Ron would ever pull his head out his arse. And the whole time you were right there with me, bearing the brunt of my bad moods, looking after me, making sure I ate when I'd have forgotten otherwise. But for a few minutes at the end of the day when you'd crawl into bed next to me, I used to pretend we were back at Hogwarts on the couches by the fire, with you reading up on our latest assignment while I thought about Quidditch drills I'd run for the next Gryffindor team practice."

Hermione smiled.

"Harry, do you think I'm making a terrible mistake, wanting to help these kids?" she asked softly, her voice little more than a whisper.

"I… honestly, love? I think you're doing something that most of us are too prejudice and too raw over the war to even consider. I don't think I could do it. I'd never even have considered it if you weren't thinking of it," Harry murmured in return. "But you're right. It's hardly the fault of the children that their parents made terrible mistakes and did terrible things."

Hermione sighed, closing her eyes a burrowing into him a little more, feeling more at peace in that moment than she'd done since before the war.

"I do have one question though," Harry admitted a short while later as they each sipped their tea and simply held one another.

"Mmmm?" Hermione asked.

"What are you going to do about their parents?" Harry asked. "I mean, depending on how many of these kids there are, and who their parents are, there's a good chance a few of them have living parents in Azkaban. Some of them might even be up for parole, sometime in the future. How are you going to handle raising the sons and daughters of people like Dolohov or Greyback or Lestrange?"

"I don't know, Harry," Hermione sighed. "I… I hardly think any of them would appreciate knowing that I'm raising their children. But I also don't like the idea of letting them rot out their remainder of their lives in prison while some poor child grows up fatherless. I think… I think I'd probably go and confront them about it. Rub it in a little that a muggleborn is raising their child or children. Make them feel guilty enough that if they're ever paroled, they might be interested in ensuring the children they sired grow up well."

"You'd willingly interact with them again?" Harry asked, surprised. "You're braver than me, Hermione. I don't even want to see any of those idiots again."

"I don't  _want_  to see them again," Hermione replied. "But I have a feeling the Ministry might ask it as a term of the foster-care contract. Most don't, of course, but you never know, with our Ministry."

"Still. Are you really sure you want to have to face them again. Imagine having to stand in front of Dolohov and talk to him about his kid. He almost killed you. He murdered Remus! Or worse, Greyback. That twisted bastard would likely try to take a bite out of you again if you went anywhere near him."

"I don't think they'd actually let me in the same room or be close enough to touch, Harry. I might have to speak with them, but I doubt I'd have to worry about being attacked," Hermione assured him.

"Well, I'm here to help with whatever you need, love. Just… promise me that you're not doing this out of some form of survivor's guilt or as a way to hide from your problems."

"Of course I'm doing it to hide from my problems, Harry. I robbed my own parents of the knowledge that I'm their daughter and nothing I tried, fixed it. I feel terrible over it, all the time, and the idea that there are kids out there without parents – feeling this sense of disconnection that I feel, knowing they have parents  _somewhere_ , just not here – makes me ache inside. I can't have my own parents back, I know that, but I can  _be_  a parent to these kids who need someone."

"If you want to do it just to be a mother, surely it would make more sense to give birth to your own biological child?" Harry suggested.

"And who would sire such a child, Harry? You?" Hermione asked. "I'm not about to ask one of the Weasleys, and Viktor is happily married. The only other person I'd ever have entertained thoughts of motherhood with is dead."

Harry frowned at her. "Who?" he asked.

Hermione blushed, burrowing her face into his chest a little more before mumbling the answer.

"I didn't catch that," Harry said when she purposely made the name unintelligible.

Hermione sighed. "Remus, Harry. Don't laugh at me. Yes, for a bit, before he and Tonks got together, I had a thing for Remus."

Harry seemed surprised. He pulled back to stare into her face for a long moment. "But he was so much older than us," he said. "He went to school with my Dad. He was twenty years older than you, Hermione."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Age is just a number, Harry. Remus and I clicked well. Both bookish. Both led into trouble by meddlesome Potters. We had a lot in common and I loved having intellectual debates with him. I never cared that he was twice my age. And it doesn't matter anyway because he married a wonderful witch and they both sacrificed their lives for our freedom. The point I was making is that unless you're offering your sperm-donor services, I don't exactly have prospects for motherhood biologically."

"I… If you want a kid, Hermione…." Harry began and Hermione jerked up, blinking at him.

"What? Seriously?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him. "You'd throw away your friendship with Ron and Ginny, and any future you might find with some pretty witch on the French International team, just because I have a ticking biological clock? Really?"

Harry stared back at her just as seriously.

"I'd do  _anything_  for you, Hermione," he said quietly. "If that was what you wanted, I'd do it."

Hermione's mind reeled in shock at his proclamation. She'd known he cared about her and that he'd help her with anything she asked about, but she hadn't expected this.

"I…" Hermione frowned.

"Of course that hinges on the idea that the first time we shagged was skill and compatibility based, rather than an emotional outlet" Harry said when she trailed off. "It might be a bit awkward trying to make a baby if the sex is rubbish."

Hermione could help the squeak of laughter that escaped her.

"I love you, you idiot," she told him affectionately. "And I'm not letting you throw away your future that way. Besides, there are children already in existence who need parents. It would be selfish to make new children when there are some who already need me. But if we both hit thirty and are unattached, or childless, I  _will_  take you up on that offer."

Harry grinned and held out his hand for her to shake. "Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

"Miss Granger, are you quite certain you understand what you're doing?" the Ministry witch – whose name tag read: Carrie Shafiq – asked her sternly.

"I'm applying to become a foster parent to the magical children of several known and convicted criminals with the intention of raising them to adulthood or until such time that their biological family claim them," Hermione replied primly.

"That's not what I meant," Carrie shook her head softly, making her bright blonde ringlet sway. "Have you read the fostering contract for these children, Miss Granger? Do you know how many of them there are? How many are you willing to take on?"

Hermione frowned.

"How many are there?" she asked. "And what ages are they?"

"There are four, currently in need of homes and care," Carrie told her. "All boys. The eldest, Lucian, is seven. The youngest, his half-brother - whose yet to be given a first name - is fifteen months old. There is also another boy, Dmitri, who will be three next month and the fourth, Alrik, has just turned two."

"Erm… Who do they belong to?"

"No one," Carrie shrugged. "If they belonged to someone, they wouldn't be in the custody of the Ministry."

"I meant, who are their biological parents," Hermione sighed, annoyed with the woman for being purposely dense.

"I'll get you their files," Carrie said after pursing her lips for a moment.

Hermione nodded and waited to be given four files for the four small boys who needed care.

"These are for the two who are related, Lucian and his little brother," Carrie said, handing it over. "This one is for Alrik, and this one is for Dmitri."

Hermione accepted them carefully, feeling dread pool in her stomach as she saw the surnames stamped across the front.

"Greyback, Lucian," Hermione read. "And Greyback, No First Name. How does a baby reach fifteen months of age without being given a first name?"

Carrie shrugged her shoulders. "He was delivered at St. Mungo's shortly after Fenrir Greyback was arrested. His mother said nothing more to the midwives than that he was the rape-baby of Fenrir Greyback and that she wanted nothing to do with him."

Hermione flipped over the file.

"Who was his mother?" she frowned, scanning for the name. She found it stamped across the child's Birth Certificate. "Isobella Greentree. I've never heard of her."

"And she'd like it to stay that way," Carrie said crisply. "You must understand, Miss Granger, these boys are here because nobody wants them. They either have no biological family who will take them, or their mothers are dead and their fathers are in prison."

Hermione frowned.

"Lucian Greyback, seven years old. Son of Fenrir Greyback and Charlotte Howard. I've never heard of her either. Lucian was conceived willingly?"

"I believe so. Lucian was brought into custody of the Ministry when Fenrir was arrested. I believe his mother was killed sometime before that time. He's very skittish and… for want of a better word, feral. He spent too long with Greyback, it seems. He snarls and snaps. His eyes flash different colours, and he eats like a savage."

"Is he afflicted with lycanthropy?" Hermione asked.

"Would that effect your willingness to take him?" Carrie asked carefully.

"No," Hermione admitted.

"I don't believe he's a werewolf in the traditional sense. He, erm… well, he doesn't fully transform at the full moon and he doesn't lose his mind, from what we've observed. He just… well, he transforms half way. He… he's an abomination, Miss Granger. He grows a long fluffy wolf-tail and his face elongates to a wolf's snout and his ears move up to the top of his head and grow furry, like a dog's. He grows claws and fangs, but he never attacks. He just squats in the corner of the room and growls if anyone gets too close. Thus far, we feed him steak – raw – on such occasions and he's happy to be left alone. He barely speaks."

Hermione frowned. She'd heard of the condition. It meant both of his parents had been werewolves, and that he'd been conceived of a mate-bond between Fenrir and Charlotte. When they'd been mated, Fenrir would have been unable to produce offspring with others until Charlotte died, which she'd obviously done shortly before the younger Greyback boy had been conceived.

"And the other boy? The baby?" Hermione asked.

"Normal, from what we can tell. He doesn't shift, or if he does, we've yet to see it happen. His eyes flash every now and then, but that's the extent of his weirdness. He hasn't been given a name because, honestly, no one seems willing to name him without claiming him."

"I'll name him," Hermione sighed. "The other boys? Dmitri and Alrik?"

"Alrik Rowle," Carrie said, frowning at Hermione like she must be barmy before pointing to the files. "Alrik is the biological son of Thorfinn Rowle and Becky Selwyn. Becky was killed in a flying accident a few months ago and her relatives are either in Azkaban along with Thorfinn, or incapable of caring for the boy."

"There's no one who could raise him?" Hermione frowned.

Carrie simply shook her head.

"And Dmitri?" she asked, not even needing to, really. "Son of Antonin Dolohov and Tatiana Rasmussen. Deceased mother. No living relatives. Of course."

"You don't seem quite so enthusiastic," Carrie said and Hermione would swear she could hear the sneer in the woman's tone.

No, she wasn't quite as enthusiastic. The three men who'd fathered these boys had personally wronged her since her debut into the wizarding world. Rowle had tried to kill her and made her first year at Hogwarts utter hell. Dolohov had hexed her and almost killed her at the Ministry in the Department of Mysteries. And Greyback had threatened to rape her, dragged her to Malfoy Manor to be tortured, and been disgustingly rude and lewd, feeling her up, licking her face and grinding his erection against her whilst holding her prisoner.

Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that the children were not their fathers.

"On the contrary, Carrie, I'm still very much on board to foster them," Hermione said. "What papers do I need to sign?"

Carrie's lips twisted.

"I don't think you understand, Miss Granger, just what fostering a child in the wizarding world means. Rather, I don't think you understand the stipulations for fostering those who belong to men currently serving prison sentences in Azkaban."

"What's not to understand?" Hermione asked. "Must I speak with their fathers before I can foster the boys?"

"Erm… well, you see, because you're not a blood relative of the boys, you have to… Gods, this is barbaric and I wish there was some way around it. You see, Hermione, in order to adopt the boys – to foster them – you have to have 'permission' from a blood relative of the children, or you have to  _be_ a blood relative. Now, ordinarily that's fine. A living relative will take them, or will sign over permission to whoever fosters the children and it's fine."

"But these three are as likely to grant me permission to their kids as they are to escape Azkaban," Hermione finished for her.

"Well… about that," Carrie bit her lip before looking over her shoulder. "There's a 'clause' that would get you around that requirement that still grants you permission."

Hermione frowned.

"I don't understand."

"Well, these boys need a mother. Magically speaking, there's a way to achieve that without needing written or even verbal permission from their fathers. But it can only be attained from their fathers."

"Oh?" Hermione asked.

Carrie leaned in very close, whispering now, as though fearful of being overheard. "Fidelity Magic recognises a witch as being given 'permission' to a man's children, his money, and everything he possesses, through sexual contact. It's along the lines that if you were to have sexual contact with these three men, you'd have rights to their children and their money. It's a very ancient law that not many people know about. Originally it was written into the magical fabric of the world as a means to keep wayward husbands from straying or shagging the servants and what have you. Any form of sexual contact triggers it."

"Meaning I have to… shag Rowle, Dolohov, and Greyback to be allowed to foster their children?" Hermione asked.

"No, you wouldn't have to shag them. Even a snog would do it. It was designed to ensure men knew what they'd lose if they touched any woman not their wife, and to protect victims of rape by allowing that witch access to the man's money to raise any ill-gotten children. Almost no-one remembers it, but you could invoke it to gain custody of the boys."

"And all I have to do is snog them?" Hermione asked. "Does past sexual contact count? Because during the war Greyback kissed me and licked my face."

"No, it's not a long-acting magical allowance in the instance of children not biologically yours. Any form of sexual contact that results in  _you_  falling pregnant would grant it for life, but since the boys aren't biologically yours, you'd have to renew the magic every month or so," Carrie whispered. "You'd have to snog them, which is unfortunate, but it would grant you access to their properties, their bank vaults, and their children."

Hermione blinked at the woman in shock.

"I'd have to snog the three of them every month to keep custody?" Hermione asked.

"Well, you could let it slide after a while, I imagine. When the Ministry stopped checking into the bond and the allowances, you'd be able to stop, but until then, yes," Carrie confirmed.

"You're sure of this?"

"It's how I got my daughter," Carrie muttered to her. "I adopted Corban Yaxley's daughter last year. He's still in prison, and Katie needed a home and a mother. He refused to give me written or verbal permission, so I snogged him and the Ministry granted me custody of her."

"You can steal a man's children by snogging him?" Hermione asked. "That's… barbaric."

"Only if they've been disowned or orphaned by the rest of their relatives," Carrie told her. "But yes. And it is barbaric, but it means that innocent kids get a good home, and it's not so much of a sacrifice."

"Speak for yourself," Hermione replied. "I've seen Yaxley, he's good-looking and his worst crime was… what? Torturing people?"

"I believe so. That's what he was convicted for, anyway," Carrie told her.

"I, on the other hand, would have to snog Rowle, Dolohov and Greyback."

"Rowle's dreamy, so I don't know what you're complaining about. And Dolohov's a bit older than you, I'll grant, but he's holding up well for a man who spent half his life in prison."

"And Greyback?" Hermione asked.

"You haven't seen him untransformed, have you?" Carrie asked her softly, smiling suddenly.

"I… Actually no, I can't say I have. He was always partially transformed whenever I encountered him."

"The Ministry have him in a cell that means he can't access his wolf outside the night of the full moon," she told her. "And they dose him every day with Wolfsbane to keep him human while he's in prison so he can't savage the guards since they did away with the Dementors. He's erm… well, I don't know if you know, but werewolves don't age the way we do. No one's completely sure of when his birthday is, but he doesn't look a day over thirty-five though certain records indicate his existence as early as sixty or so years ago. Killer eyes, brown hair to his shoulders. Very built. Honestly, if he wasn't a monster, I'd go there." Hermione's eyes widened in surprise but Carrie wasn't finished. "And it's only a snog. They've been in prison long enough, and they're all lecherous enough that you'd only have to provoke them a little and they'll snog you. You just have to endure a few moments of 'ick' every month and then you're free to keep raising the boys."

"This is what you do?" Hermione asked her.

Carrie nodded. "It works, I swear. If you sign the papers, travel to Azkaban, snog them and return, you'll be granted full custody and given keys to their bank vaults for all the money you'd need to raise those boys. I don't know how much any of them have left, but if you're snogging them, you get the same rights as if you were married to them. An all-access pass, of sorts."

"This is… madness," Hermione whispered.

"Do you want to raise the boys, or not, Granger?" Carrie demanded. "I'll be honest, it would be good to see them have a mother and a home. They're treated like dirt here. No one wanted any of them because their fathers are all wretches. The girls all got adopted, but those four have been here for months. Lucian's been here almost two years. He's isolated and withdrawn. He  _needs_  a mother."

Hermione bit her lip. Could she do it?

"All I have to do is snog them?" she confirmed.

Carrie nodded. "I swear on my magic," she said. "I'll even help you fill out the papers."

"You don't need to inspect my home to ensure it's suitable?" Hermione asked.

Carrie shook her head. "I'm supposed to, but you're Hermione Granger. I don't  _need_  to. And besides, you'd have access to Rowle Tower and wherever Dolohov lives. I don't imagine you'd want whichever squalid dwelling Greyback calls home, but the Tower is very nice. I used to go there as a girl."

"I'd live in my own cottage," Hermione protested. "It's very safe. But I'm unattached. Don't you need to prove they'd have a stable home environment?"

"You're not hearing me, Hermione," Carrie huffed. "Those boys have no one. The Ministry elves feed them and do their laundry and change their diapers. A Healer checks on them once a month. That's the extent of their interaction with anyone but each other."

Hermione's hand covered her mouth.

"Can I meet them?" she asked in a whisper.

Carrie nodded, getting to her feet and leading Hermione away down the hall. Hermione followed her, ignoring the looks from suspicious Ministry workers lurking about for a story or a scoop of gossip. Carrie led her to the very end of a corridor and used her wand to perform a series of charms to unlock the room.

Hermione's heart broke when she entered the room.

There were three small beds and a baby cot. All four boys were sitting inside, playing together, but it was clear they were unloved and unwanted. Their hair was too long, their skin grimy as though they didn't wash often enough because nobody made sure they did so. They looked a little underfed and the things in the room were shabby. Most of the toys they played with were broken and their clothes had rips and holes in them, obviously donated or pulled from lost property somewhere.

"Boys," Carrie greeted them softly. "This is Hermione Granger. She's going to adopt you."

The unnamed Greyback baby and Alrik Rowle were both likely too young to understand what she'd said. Dmitri looked puzzled, and Lucian watched the pair of witches with wary grey eyes, pulling his baby brother and the other two boys back toward himself, as though fearful they'd be taken away from him. Hermione recognised the urge to protect his 'pack' in the young boy.

"Lucian?" she asked softly. "Would it be alright if I came over there and sat down?"

The seven year old eyed her carefully, his eyes darting to Carrie. He bared his teeth at the other witch.

"He doesn't like me because I took Katie away," Carrie said quietly. "I'll leave you with them for a few minutes. When you need me, I'll be at my desk."

Carrie let herself out of the room and Lucian stopped baring his teeth. He eyed Hermione warily for a moment, watching the way she came closer slowly. She approached cautiously, not wanting to startle them.

"Who you?" Dmitri asked, surprising Hermione with his ability to talk at all.

"My name is Hermione," she told them softly. "What's your name?"

"Dmitri Dolohov," the little boy of three informed her, holding out his hand smartly to introduce himself. Hermione blinked in surprise before shaking his hand.

"Awik!" Alrik introduced himself, pointing to his own chest indicatively.

"Alrik," she corrected the boy's pronunciation. "And you must be Lucian."

She turned her eyes on the eldest boy. He clutched his baby brother in his lap and he jerked his head in a nod of affirmation at her words.

"What do you call your brother, Lucian?" she asked softly, settling herself to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the boys.

Lucian glanced at the baby.

"Pup," he shrugged.

Hermione frowned.

"He needs a proper name, don't you think?" she asked. "Maybe one that means wolf? Like you and your father?"

Lucian nodded warily.

"How about, from now on, we call him Ranulf?" she asked. "Ranulf Gryback."

Lucian's eyes flashed for a moment before he nodded again.

"Excellent," Hermione hummed. Her heart squeezed in her chest when little Alrik – all bright blond hair and blue eyes - wobbled forward on toddler legs to fall into her lap.

"Hello, Alrik," Hermione smiled. "Merlin, it ought to be illegal for anyone to be as adorable as you four are. Especially given who your fathers are."

"You know my Daddy?" Dmitri asked.

Hermione nodded, lifting Alrik into her lap and letting the boy tug on her curls. "I do, Dmitri. I know all of your fathers. I went to Hogwarts with Alrik's Daddy, Thorfinn."

"How do you know my Daddy?" Dmitri asked.

"He… we made acquaintance here at the Ministry one day while I was in my fifth year. And Lucian, I met your father in the woods one day."

"Did he bite you?" Lucian asked, leaning forward slightly and sniffing the air.

"He licked me," Hermione offered, not wanting to speak ill of their fathers, despite what wretched people they happened to be. "And he said he very much  _wanted_ to bite me. Among other things…"

Lucian's eyes flashed.

"You're lucky he didn't," he murmured. "Or you'd be a wolf, too."

"Like you?" she asked softly.

Lucian growled at her. "If you were bitten, you'd be a wolf like Mum. No one is like me. Not even the pup."

"Don't growl, Lucian," Dmitri whispered. "She might adopt us. Unless you growl."

Hermione smiled at the children carefully, seeing the veiled hope on Dmitri's face and watching the way Alrik pulled softly on her curls, intrigued by the long spirals. It occurred to her that being essentially neglected and uncared for while they'd been in Ministry custody, they'd obviously had to mature a little faster than most children would have done.

"You're taking them away from me?" Lucian asked sullenly, looking resentful and like he wanted to bite her. "I won't let you. They're  _my_  pack and you can't take any more of them away!"

Hermione squeaked in surprise when the boy set aside his brother, lunged at her and bit her forearm viciously. He withdrew just as quickly, snatching Alrik back as he went, and leaving Hermione sitting there in shock.

"That wasn't very nice, Lucian," Hermione told the boy, suspecting that raising her voice or growing angry would only upset him further. "You've drawn blood."

She showed him the beads of blood forming on her skin where he'd left a perfect ring of his teeth marks. Lucian's response was to growl and Hermione wondered if maybe he'd already been alone too long. Carrie was right, he was more than a little feral, left to his own devices so long and forced to be the most mature in a group of toddlers. Perhaps his distrust of adults would never subside, no matter what she might be do try and alter his perceptions. But she had to try.

"I have no intention of taking any of your pack away from you, Lucian," she went on softly. "I came here today to ask if you'd all like to come home with me, where I can look after you."

Lucian's eyes glittered with remorse, clearly thinking his aggression had cost him the chance of getting out of here or having a family.

"Lucian!" Dmitri cried out in despair while Alrik began to cry. "Now the nice lady goes away... leave us here alone... again."

Hermione's heart squeezed when Lucian growled at the little boy as Dmitri hit him in his frustration.

"Dmitri, we don't hit family, alright?" Hermione asked, catching the dark-haired boy's arm and preventing him from doing so again. "Lucian was scared and he struck out when he shouldn't have, but that's not his fault, and he's not going to do it again, are you Lucian?"

Lucian looked wary before he shook his head slowly, though he also shrugged, making her think he'd do it again if he thought it was necessary.

"Good. Now, if you would all like to come home with me, I will go and gain the permission of your father's to foster you," Hermione told them.

Lucian's eyes lit up.

"You're going to see my Dad?" he asked in an awed voice.

"Yes. I have to have his permission to take you home with me," Hermione told the young boy softly.

"Will you tell him about Pup? Ranulf?" Lucian corrected himself, suddenly looking excited.

Hermione's heart broke when she realised the little boy loved his father and missed him terribly. She understood why they couldn't be allowed near their fathers, given that they were in Azkaban, but the idea that without them, these little children had no one else to love them or care for them made her whole body ache with sadness. To her, Fenrir Greyback was a terrible monster. A murderer. A cannibal. A rapist. A wretched creature too dangerous to be allowed to interact with the public. But to Lucian, he was the man he called "Daddy". He was the man who likely played with him and cared for him. Born of a mate-bond, Hermione didn't doubt that for all his flaws, Fenrir Greyback would've been kind to his mate and would've loved the child they'd created together.

"Of course I will, sweetheart," Hermione whispered, her throat tight as she choked back her tears. "Will you do something for me while I go and see him?"

"Can't I come too?" he asked, looking crestfallen.

"No, Lucian. Your fathers are all in prison. It's not a nice place for little boys to go. The guards won't let me in to see them if I take you with me," Hermione told him. "But I'll tell him you say hello, and that you love him, if you like?"

"My Daddy too?" Dmitri asked, toddling over and pulling at Hermione's unwounded hand to get her attention. "Will you see my Daddy too?"

Hermione nodded.

"Of course, Dmitri. I'll tell all of your fathers that you say hello," Hermione whispered. "Can you do something for me while I do it?"

"What is it?" Lucian asked.

"Pack up your toys and have baths?" Hermione asked. "We'll leave as soon as I get back from meeting with your Dad, alright? Can you help the little ones get clean?"

Lucian nodded.

"I'll be back shortly, I promise," Hermione whispered as she got to her feet, watching them get up, too.

"Wait…" Lucian called, setting Ranulf down on the floor for a minute and racing after her as she approached the door. "I… Sorry I bit you."

He looked at his feet for a minute, before reaching for her still bleeding arm. Hermione frowned slightly when he licked the bite clean of her blood, some anticoagulant in his saliva sealing the wound shut. She'd never seen a wound do that before, and she wondered just what type of effects came as a result of his being born of a lycanthropic mate-bond.

"I'd appreciate it if you curbed your urge to bite anyone from now on, Lucian," Hermione told him, reaching for him carefully and watching the way he watched her hand until she touched his hair gently. "I know it's hard, sometimes, and if you feel threatened or like you or your pack are in danger, you do whatever you can to defend yourself and them, but please don't bite me again, alright?"

Lucian nodded his head.

"Sorry," he whispered again. "Will… will you give my Dad something from me?"

Hermione nodded. "What is it, sweetheart?" she asked.

Hermione blinked when the boy threw himself at her, pressing his face into her shirt and cuddling her tightly enough to make her wince ever so slightly.

"Tell him I miss him," Lucian whispered. "And I'm sorry. And I've been looking after Pup. Ranulf. And that I want to see him again."

Hermione's eyes filled with tears as she hugged the boy in return.

"I'll tell him, darling," Hermione whispered, smoothing a gentle hand over his tangled brown hair. "You get yourself and the boys ready for when I come back, and I'll take you all far away from this terrible place."

Lucian nodded, wiping his suspiciously wet eyes as he pulled away and hurried back to his brother without looking back, obviously shy and uncomfortable after being affectionate. She suspected she might've provided the only human contact he'd had from an adult not a healer in however long he'd been in this wretched room.

Hermione let herself out, warding the door behind her to keep the boys from getting out and running loose in the Ministry. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she hurried back down the hall to where Carrie waited with all the papers she needed to sign before going to Azkaban.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione held her breath as they approached the towering structure of the prison on an island in the middle of the North Sea, far from any civilization. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, shivering against the cold blasts of wind that buffeted her slim frame with enough force to almost knock her off her feet before she was led inside the prison.

"You sure are brave, wanting to visit these three, Granger," her Auror escort – a rough-seeming man named Clarence Stebbins – commented as he led her inside.

Carrie had sent word ahead to have Rowle, Dolohov, and Greyback prepped for visitation. Hermione suspected that meant they would be allowed - or forced - to bathe, shave, and brush their teeth. She really hoped they were able to brush their teeth, otherwise this was going to be even more unsettling that it already promised to be. She couldn't be more grateful to Carrie for at least insisting they be bathed. She recalled how filthy Sirius had been when he'd escaped Azkaban and she didn't fancy getting too close to any of these men at the best of times, let alone when they were unwashed. The idea of even seeing any of them was turning her stomach with fear and hatred, and Hermione dreaded having to snog any one of them individually, let alone all three.

"It's important that I do so," Hermione told Stebbins, trying to control the way her hands trembled with nerves at the idea of facing such wretched men once more.

"Who do you want first?"

"Which one is the worst?" she asked in reply.

Stebbins snorted as though she'd told a joke. "They're all scum in my opinion, doll. But Greyback's the worst of the lot, I'd say. Feral beast, that one. Dunno what you want to be seeing him for. Foul git, he is. Monster."

Hermione didn't comment on his degradation of his prisoners, unprofessional though it was. She had no interest in defending these men against those who judged and guarded them.

"I'll see Greyback first, then. Rowle last," she decided. She rationalised that of the three, Rowle was probably the most pleasant, since his attempt on her life had been little more than pushing her down a moving staircase in school.

"Right then, this way. Greyback's on the very top floor for the maddest criminals. We reckon that if any of them ever  _do_  escape by trying to jump down and swim for shore, the fall will kill the bastards who jump from the top."

Hermione nodded her head.

"Are they… erm… prepared for visitation?" Hermione asked.

"They will be, yeah. Greyback will be in chains, hands and feet and one around his throat. He's sedated a bit with the Wolfsbane, too. So don't be alarmed if he's a bit dopey. Got to keep him that way, or he savages folks."

"Delightful," Hermione whispered, stuffing her hands into her pockets to hide the way they shook.

"Oi! Scum!" Stebbins greeted the werewolf when they reached the top of the prison, rapping a baton on the bars of Greyback's cell. He stood in the middle of the room, hands and feet chained, a collar around his throat just as Stebbins had promised. His brown hair was long, falling past his shoulders, but it looked somewhat clean. He had some terrible scars across his face and visible on his forearms where they were bare.

Hermione blinked. Carrie had been right. If he weren't a wretch, he'd be sexy as hell. Merlin, even knowing what a monster he was, she knew her body reacted to the sight he made. His hair was brown but for a streak of silver in the front. His eyes were a pale shade of grey, almost translucent, when they weren't the yellow of the wolf.

They were also fixed on her and a cruel, toothy smirk was curling across his face as Hermione was let into the room.

"Hello, girly," he greeted her, his voice pleasantly rough in a way that made her hair stand on end.

"Greyback," Hermione nodded in greeting, her shoulders tense with the nerves of being in his presence. Chained or not, he was dangerous. She could feel it.

She looked over at Stebbins when he didn't follow her inside.

"You can wait out there if you're uncomfortable, Stebbins," Hermione told the Auror, noting the way he leered at Greyback from the door but didn't enter the cell after Hermione.

"Watch him, you hear?" Stebbins told her. "He's dosed up, but he's been known to break those chains."

Hermione nodded, looking away from the Auror and back at the werewolf when his chains clanked as he shifted closer, stretching to the ends of them as he drew in her scent.

"Pleased to see me, girly?" he smirked, taunting her, apparently picking up on the hint of attraction she'd felt.

"Who wouldn't be?" Hermione sneered in return, finding her courage.

"You smell… like…" he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before his eyes shot open, deepening to the gold of the wolf. "Why do you smell like my pup?"

His teeth appeared to sharpen in his mouth and Hermione tipped her head to one side slowly, subconsciously displaying submission to him as the Alpha in the room so as to avoid having him think she was there to challenge him. That wouldn't end well for her, Hermione knew. She watched him carefully as he sniffed the air again, shifting a little bit closer.

"Lucian asked me to tell you that he missed you, Fenrir," Hermione replied quietly. "He asked me to give you a hug, too. But I think I might just tell him I passed it along."

"What's the matter, witch? You scared of the big bad wolf?" he challenged. "Why the fuck have you been anywhere near my pup, mudblood?"

"He's my pup, now. Him and his brother."

Greyback's eyes went wide.

"She got pregnant?" he smirked. "How old is he? What's his name?"

"Ranulf," Hermione answered. "I named him this morning. He's fifteen months old."

She jumped when he tipped his head back and howled triumphantly.

"Does he shift like Lucian?" he asked, appearing excited as though the notion of his illegitimate children were cause for celebration.

"I'm told not."

"Said they were yours?" he raised one eyebrow at the idea, obviously confused. "You claiming my cubs, Granger?"

"You know who I am?"

"You put me in this place," he retorted, waving a finger around the cell and making his chains clank all the more. "When I get loose, I'll rip your throat out for it, too."

"You put yourself here, Fenrir. And I didn't even testify at your trail," Hermione argued, frowning at the causal way he threatened her – he didn't seem threatening as he said it. In fact, he stated his intent to rip her throat out with as much interest as he might state that the sun would come out when the rain cleared. "However, I am here because I have been granted custody of your sons. I will be raising them from here on out."

"Where's my bitch? The young one. Izzy something," he asked. Hermione didn't bother trying to correct him for calling the girl a bitch, thinking he meant it in the sense of referring to a female canine by the proper title 'bitch' rather than that he was insulting the poor woman. Hermione frowned. Maybe he didn't know the woman was human and not a werewolf.

"She gave Ranulf up without even bothering to name him. She claimed him to be a rape-baby and an abomination, and said she wouldn't raise the child of a monster who'd raped her," Hermione said, goading him, suspecting she'd need to trick him into snogging her.

He rattled his chains, snarling fiercely.

"He's fifteen months old. Where the fuck's he been since I was locked up? Where's Lucian?" Greyback demanded through clenched teeth.

"They've been kept by the Ministry. Secluded. Only cared for by elves and a monthly Healer examination," Hermione replied.

"WHAT?" Fenrir roared and his chains groaned as he hit the ends of them.

"You heard me," Hermione shrugged. "No one cared and no one wanted them. When I found out about it, I agreed to foster them and two other boys, Dolohov's son, and Rowle's little boy."

Fenrir growled fiercely.

"They locked my pups up and experimented on them?" he snarled furiously, pulling at his chains now. "You can't have them, bitch. They're mine and I won't have them tainted by you.  _You_  and your Werewolf Rights bullshit. Don't pretend you give a fuck about my kind."

"I give a fuck about your sons," Hermione retorted, stepping closer, close enough to touch him, doing so as she slapped his chest angrily. "They're mine now! I'll raise them however I see fit, to be good, upstanding citizens who uphold the law and get a proper education and the love they deserve. And  _you_  will stay in this cell and rot!"

Hermione squeaked when he broke free of his chains, jerking free of the ones binding his hands and yanking his legs free of those binding his ankles. The metal groaned and gave with a snap, and he pried open the collar around his throat, showing a strength that unnerved her.

She grunted when he charged her, his hands scooping under the backs of her thighs and lifting her, propelling her backwards until she hit the wall. The air rushed from her lungs on impact and Fenrir Greyback slotted himself between her spread thighs easily, pinning her to the wall.

He paused in his intent to lunge for her throat when she made no effort to fight back or to push him away, or even to call for help.

"You're not afraid of me," he said in a strange voice, his eyes darting from her throat to meet her gaze.

"I'm wondering if, now that you've thrown your tantrum, you might actually  _listen_  to what I've been trying to tell you," Hermione replied, her voice shaking a little as she tried to control her reaction. "And put me down, would you? Before one of the Aurors comes bursting in thinking to save my virtue."

"Virtue?" he laughed, leaning into her neck and inhaling deeply. "You gave that up a long time ago, girly. Merlin, you smell fucking delicious!"

"Yes, it's a result of regular bathing," Hermione deadpanned, putting her hands on his enormous shoulders and realising, pressed this close, that he was huge. In all senses of the word. Something that became apparent when he ground his rapidly hardening cock against the seam of her jeans and almost drew a whimper from her lips.

She didn't doubt he could smell her unavoidable state of arousal at the touch, no matter that she was concerned that he'd broken free so easily. She wasn't exactly scared of him, nor was she attracted to him enough for it to matter much, but it'd been sometime since she'd had any action and her nethers were thrumming at the attention.

"You didn't smell this good last time," Fenrir informed her and Hermione gasped when he licked her throat before dragging his teeth very lightly across the skin. "Fucking hell, girly, did you come here to tell me you're claiming my sons, or hoping I'd fuck another one into you?"

"I  _did_  ask you to put me down, Greyback," Hermione said dryly, wondering just what counted as 'sexual contact' for the sake of activating her ability to gain custody of his kids. "Honestly, if the guards burst in here and think you're assaulting me, it will make it a great deal more difficult for me to come back next month with pictures of your kids and whatever other messages they might have for you."

Her words seemed to penetrate his excitement and he pulled back slowly to regard her through grey eyes threaded with gold.

"You mean to come back?" he asked quietly, his eyes scanning her face.

"Every month," Hermione nodded.

"Why?"

"Why would I come back? Or why am I adopting your kids?"

"Both," the werewolf shrugged, still not putting her down, but not at all hurting her either. Hermione felt rather fragile in his hands, knowing he was capable of ripping through chains; knowing he was a murderer and a rapist and a cannibal. Yet, she found that from up close, he was… strangely alluring, too.

"I'm adopting them and the other two boys because they need someone to look after them. They're not mistreated where they are right now, but they are ignored and left mostly to their own devices. That would be bad enough in a boy Lucian's age, but Ranulf is still just a baby, Dmitri is almost three and Alrik is barely two. They need a mother. They need proper care, and interaction, and to be taught how to walk and talk. How to read and write. How to dress themselves and how frequently they should bathe. Honestly, when I met them this morning, I was appalled."

Fenrir growled softly under his breath.

"You're getting them out of there?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "I have a quiet little cottage far away from the eyes of the public to raise them where Lucian's transformations won't be noticed and they can grow up away from the scrutiny of the public."

"Just you?" Fenrir asked. "Thought you and the ginger lad were a thing?"

Hermione shrugged. "Didn't work out. I expect Harry will be around often to help me raise them and to make sure they have a male role model, what with their fathers being locked in prison."

"Why would you come back, girly?" he asked. "You know what I am. You know that the other two are, too. Raising the kids might be some hang-up you've got, but why come back?"

"They're yours," Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "Lucian especially, very much wants you to be a part of his life, Greyback. He asked me to tell you he misses you, and that he loves you. If I can make them happy by letting them grow up knowing that even though you're all in prison and can't be there to raise them, you can at least watch how they're doing and give them some peace of mind that you care."

"What makes you think I do?"

"You attacked me at the very idea of those boys being mistreated," Hermione reminded him. "Broke your chains. Pinned me to the wall. Are you going to put me down, or shall all of our conversations take place this way?"

He glanced down at her body, pinned against the wall, his hands gripping her hips tightly.

"Been a long time since I had a witch, you know?" he commented. "And you smell fucking good."

"You know they'll extend your sentence if you try anything with me, don't you?" Hermione asked.

"I was sentenced to life, Granger. I'll never legally get free. I'm not exactly trustworthy. There's no parole in my future. If you're raising my sons, you'll be doing it alone," he drawled, tilting his head to one side.

"Somehow, I doubt that," Hermione murmured, her eyes searching his and finding a cunning gleam in them. "You realise that if you ever break out of here, my place is the first spot they'll look, knowing I've got your pups."

He nodded his head.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking I'd come human, girly," he smirked.

"Should I expect you shortly?" she asked, frowning at him and not at all liking the idea of him getting loose but doubting they'd be able to hold him for long. Wolfsbane every day was meant to make him docile and weak, but it didn't seem to be having much effect. Hermione suspected, from the gleam in his eyes, that he'd begun metabolising it at a rate that would soon prevent it from actually weakening him at all.

"Probably not for a year, at least. Takes more than the ability to break chains to get loose of this place," Fenrir smirked. "You're still not afraid, even at the notion that I might bust loose and hunt you and my pups down."

"I don't think you actually want to hurt me," Hermione admitted, eyeing him carefully.

"What makes you so sure? I hurt everyone, Granger. And you do smell delicious."

"Yet you've not taken a bite out of me," she commented. "You tried to, last time we met."

"Last time we met you almost killed me, witch."

"Turnabout's fair play, Greyback," Hermione retorted. "You had me tortured and threatened to rape me."

"Still might," he replied, grinning toothily.

"I don't think so," Hermione shook her head. "I take it you're  _not_  going to put me down."

"Nope," he said.

"Delightful. Now do you have any further objections to me raising your sons?" Hermione asked.

"Don't turn them into whiny little pansies who can't hold their own in a fight?" he suggested. "And don't try to normalise them by human or wizarding standards. They're wolves, girly. They'll always be wolves."

"They're little boys and I will raise them as such," Hermione corrected him.

He bared his teeth at her and looked amused when Hermione bared her own in return.

"You don't scare easy at all," he grinned. "Not like last time. If I do this…"

He ground his erection against her core and Hermione's breathing hitched. She wondered how twisted she must be and how badly she must need to get laid that she could feel her body responding to him. Animal magnetism practically rolled off him and Hermione hated herself a little for being ensnared.

Greyback chuckled smugly.

"By the time I break out of here, you're going to beg me to fuck you, witch," he practically purred.

"I don't beg," Hermione retorted evenly, squirming ever so slightly and making him hiss at the friction.

"You will," he assured her and Hermione wasn't expecting it when he leaned into her and captured her lips.

His lips were soft and slightly chapped, but firm against hers. She found herself alarmed that he actually knew how to kiss a woman nicely, having expected rough treatment and force. Her hands tightened reflexively on his shoulders and Hermione quivered when he rocked himself against her. Merlin, she was going to have to go home and shag someone silly to avoid this type of reaction in future. What was  _wrong_  with her?

"You should go," Fenrir informed her huskily, pulling back as his eyes brightened almost completely to gold. "Before I turn this into a conjugal visit, whether you're entirely willing or not."

Hermione nodded her head, trying to control her breathing and her reaction. She watched the werewolf sniff the air for a moment, before he stooped slightly, turning his head and sniffing at her wrist where Lucian had bitten her.

"My pup nipped you," he commented, lifting the appendage and turning it to the light to see the scarred ring of teeth marks where the boy had bitten her.

"He thought I was going to break up his 'pack'," Hermione nodded. "He's been in that facility so long, and other kids of Death Eaters have come and gone so often, and I don't doubt he's been frequently called an abomination for his partial shift at the full moons, that he feared he'd be left behind, alone. He bit me in protest."

"Tell me the truth, girly," Fenrir said, lifting the appendage to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the scars. "What have they done to my boy?"

"I haven't read all of his file, yet," Hermione admitted. "It was more prudent that I get him out of there."

"Then what are you doing here? Is he still there? Is Ranulf? Did you say  _you_  named the pup this morning?" Fenrir frowned.

"I'm not legally allowed to assume custody of any of the boys without consent from you, Rowle and Dolohov, respectively," Hermione explained. "But yes. Up until I got there, the pup was simply referred to as 'Greyback' or 'No Name' or 'the child'. Lucian was calling him 'pup'."

"Why Ranulf?" Fenrir asked.

"It means wolf," Hermione shrugged. "Since Fenrir and Lucian do, too, I figured it would keep in tradition."

Fenrir nodded.

"Granger?" he asked, his mouth still tormenting her wrist.

"Mmm?" Hermione asked, frowning as she watched him and wondering why she wasn't recoiling in disgust or fear.

"This might hurt," he muttered, before he lunged and closed his teeth over her wrist in a perfect ring around the one Lucian had left on her.

Hermione hissed, trying to pull her wrist from his grip but he held onto her elbow, his tongue sliding against her flesh to lap at the blood when it welled.

"That one won't seal with a lick like Lucian's do," he told her. "But it won't infect you, either."

"I know," Hermione nodded. "Trust me, I'm very well educated regarding your condition."

"It's not a 'condition', witch," Fenrir growled softly. "It's a way of life. I'm not a human with a disease. I'm a different species. A magical creature who sometimes takes almost-human form. Even on New Moon days, I'm never completely human. No werewolf is. I don't know what Lupin told you, but you've got us all wrong, girly. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you'll raise my boys right."

Hermione frowned at him. "I've seen the blood work, Greyback. You're human. You're strong, faster and you heal quicker, but you're human. Most of the time."

He shook his head, smirking a little. "When I break out of here," he murmured. "You'll get a few new lessons on lycanthropy, little witch."

"You can't infect me," Hermione warned him. "Ever."

"We'll see," he smirked at her. "Go on and convince the others to let you raise their boys, witch. Your blood is making me hungry and I'm not above fucking and feasting at the same time, from the same source."

"I'm aware," Hermione deadpanned. "Put me down, so I can leave."

He did, lowering her to the ground as though she weighed no more than a feather. Hermione watched him use his claws to tear a thin strip of fabric from the hem of his prison shirt, and she blinked in surprise when he licked her wrist clean of blood a second time before tying the fabric around it in a bandage.

"Put silver and dittany paste on that when you get home, Granger," he told her. "It'll stop the itch."

"It's not itchy," Hermione said, frowning.

"No?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly before he leaned in and sniffed her again. "You been bitten by my kind before? Other than Lucian?"

"Remus bit me, once," Hermione nodded. She pulled aside the neck of her jumper to show him the faded pink scar in the shape of Remus's teeth marks.

"Bet he tortured himself over it, too," Fenrir smirked, touching the scar lightly. "Did it itch when it healed?"

Hermione shook her head.

Fenrir's eyes trailed over her from head to foot as though she suddenly intrigued him even more.

"Are they supposed to itch?" she asked, frowning. "Bill told me his wounds itched when you attacked him, but we all assumed that was just the nature of all wounds as they heal."

"They itch like a thousand fire-ants crawling under your skin and stinging," Fenrir told her.

"Mine don't," Hermione said.

"You don't have any other bites than the one Lupin gave you?" Fenrir wanted to know. "They should still itch every time, though less as time wears on and your system absorbs the infection, rather than fighting it."

"I've not been bitten by any other werewolf, to my knowledge," Hermione shrugged her shoulders.

"Go anyway," he smirked. "Check every inch of yourself when you get home. I'd say you've been bitten before, girly. More than once. There's a reason you're not scared of me."

"I was scared last time."

"I was running you down like prey last time," he pointed out. "Everyone gets scared when they're running for their lives. You were never scared of Remus either, were you?"

Hermione frowned thoughtfully.

"No," she admitted. "Not even when he transformed in front of me. I tried to approach him and my friends had to pull me away. I howled to draw him closer too, when he was about to attack Harry."

"Did you run?" Fenrir asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course I did. And I nearly got savaged, too. I was scared then."

"Of the wolf? Or of the pain you anticipated in the attack?" he wanted to know.

Hermione frowned, unsure of the answer.

"Think about it," he told her. "And Granger, one thing?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows, lifting her gaze to meet his.

"Next month, be sure to plan your visit around both our times of the month," he told her.

Hermione frowned.

"Would mine effect yours?" she asked.

"Even on a New Moon, yours will affect me," he nodded. "Tell my pups I love them, witch."

Hermione nodded, frowning all the more over the turn the visit had taken when Fenrir turned his back on her and walked across the small cell to peer out the window.

"Wait," he said when she reached the door.

Hermione turned back and jumped in surprise to find him suddenly in her personal space. He bent and took possession of her lips once more, his tongue sweeping into her mouth and bringing the taste of mint-toothpaste and blood. Hermione's fingers tangled into his brown hair and she found herself pressing her body against his needily, a little whimper of sound escaping her to be devoured by the werewolf.

He was laughing when he pulled back several minutes later.

"If I were you, I'd be looking into the friends, colleagues and neighbours of your parents around the time of your conception, Granger," he smirked at her. "That is  _not_  a normal reaction to being rushed and assaulted by a werewolf."

Hermione nodded speechlessly, her lips tingling madly and her breath coming in sharp little gasps.

"And good luck convincing those other bastards to give you permission to raise their boys," Fenrir laughed. "I recommend provoking Rowle into snogging you, and just stealing the snog from Dolohov."

"You knew I had to snog you to gain custody of Ranulf and Lucian?" she asked.

"Just because I'm a werewolf doesn't mean I'm stupid," he winked at her, turning the doorknob and opening it for her.

Stebbins was waiting on the other side and almost wet himself in terror to see Fenrir loose. Hermione almost laughed when he fumbled his wand, actually squealing in terror when Fenrir growled at him ferociously. The Auror forced the werewolf back into the cell and locked it tightly, warding it to prevent his escape even though Fenrir continued to watch them through the bars on the window into the cell. He seemed entirely too amused.

"Miss Granger?" Stebbins squeaked. "Are you alright?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I'm fine, Stebbins. Leave the cranky werewolf alone and take me to my next victim, please."

"Victim?" he said, still squeaking.

Fenrir's laughter followed them all the way to the elevator and Hermione found herself thinking she must be a terrible person for sharing amusements with the likes of Fenrir Greyback.

"See you next month, girly," Fenrir called just before the elevator doors closed and Hermione sighed.

"You mean to return?" Stebbins asked, frowning.

"I'm raising his sons," Hermione nodded. "I have to return."

"Like Shafiq and Yaxley?" Stebbins asked carefully.

"Mhmmm," Hermione nodded.

"Ah, shoot," the man sighed. "Dolohov next, right?"

"Unfortunately," Hermione nodded, making a face at the very idea.

"You look more alarmed by seeing Dolohov than you did to see that monster," he nodded his head toward the top of the elevator, obviously indicating Greyback.

"Yes, well," Hermione sniffed. "That one only threatened to rape me before he handed me over to be tortured. The next one almost killed me."

Stebbins winced.

"This is about kids, right? Their kids? Them ones the Ministry's been bleating about needing homes and care?" Stebbins confirmed.

Hermione nodded her head. "Yes, there are four boys I'll be fostering. Two are Greyback's, one is Dolohov's, and one is Rowle's."

"And you've got to snog 'em each month to maintain custody of the kids, right?" Stebbins said.

"So I'm told."

"You just snogged that monster?" Stebbins pulled a face of utter disgust at the idea of anybody willingly snogging Greyback.

"I don't exactly have much choice, Stebbins. I'd rather not be here having to even look at any of these wretched men ever again, but those poor little boys need care. They need a mother and I can't be their mother without gaining the right to their custody. This is all uncomfortable enough without your judgement, so if you could keep your thoughts about all this to yourself, I'd appreciate it."

"Right," Stebbins muttered as the elevator dinged several floors lower.

Hermione stepped through carefully.

"This one," Stebbins nodded, leading her down the corridor and to one of the doors. Most of the prisoners moved forward in their cells, watching the pair of them walk past, but none of them spoke to her.

"Are they… Silenced?" Hermione asked, frowning as she walked past the cells of both Lestrange brothers.

"Nah, they just learn early on not to cat-call," Stebbins replied, smirking. "Every time they do it, they get hexed. Makes bringing whatever visitors they have feel a bit more secure and keeps us from having to listen to their rot. Half of 'em on this floor are half-mad or worse, anyway. Nothing worse than being shouted at in gibberish."

"They're…" Hermione frowned. "Are they actually unhinged, or they're just classified that way because they followed Voldemort?"

Several hisses sounded in the corridor, coming from each of the prisoners who'd been a Death Eater.

"Bit of both," Stebbins shrugged. "The way we figure it, you've got to be cracked to follow that bastard. They're zealots, the lot of them. Some are more cracked than others. Some shout profanity, some just shout for their freedom."

"I see," Hermione murmured. "And… Dolohov?"

"Shouts in Russian so we ain't got a clue what to make of his bullshit when he gets rowdy. He'll be chained up too, though not as much as Greyback. This lot aren't dangerous enough not to be moved from their cells, so they get moved into the Visitation room when people need to see 'em. There'll be a table between you and he's cuffed to it."

"Right," Hermione muttered. "So… Greyback's cells is always like that? That's where he's kept?"

Stebbins nodded.

"But… there was no bed or anything…" she murmured.

"He's a monster. He don't get a bed, Miss Granger. He gets a cold stone floor and chains for when we've got to have him meet with someone."

Hermione frowned, appalled at the state of living of these prisoners.

"And this lot?" she asked, nodding toward the prisoners in the corridor as they all gripped the bars, leering at her in silence as she went by.

"They get a thin pad for something to sleep on and a ratty blanket. Bucket in the corner. That's it. Them on the top floor usually get a blanket, at least, but Greyback used his to capture some of his guards and hold them until he ripped their throats out. That was early on, before we got him sedated with Wolfsbane every day. We put it in his food and his water to keep him from accessing the wolf."

Hermione nodded.

"Right. It's this one. You want me to come in with you?" Stebbins asked. "He's cuffed to the table, but you being muggle-born and telling him you're taking his kid – he might get violent."

"I've got my wand," Hermione shrugged. "And Greyback broke his chains and pinned me to the wall. I hardly think Dolohov will be able to break his."

"Watch him," Stebbins warned her, putting a hand on her arm to prevent her opening the door. "We sedate these bastards too, but some of them still have some control of wandless magic. He might hit you with something. Keep a Shield Charm up."

Hermione nodded her head and Stebbins released her arm. Turning the handle, she opened the door slowly, taking a deep breath before she walked inside, head held high, to face the man who'd come closest to killing her.


	4. Four

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the sight of Antonin Dolohov where he sat, chained to the table in the middle of the room. His prison robes looked somewhat fresh, as though he'd been given a shower and given clean robes for the sake of having a visitor. His dark hair hung in waves about his jaw, looking like it had been cut recently. He wore a full beard, trimmed and shaped to hug his jaw rather than wearing it long like Dumbledore had once done.

" _Lisitsa,"_  he growled, his dark eyes lifting to scan her from head to foot as she entered the room. Stebbins closed the door behind her.

"Dolohov," Hermione greeted, her hands shaking inside her pockets where she gripped her wand tightly.

Dolohov snarled something in Russian that she expected must be very rude. "What the fuck do you want, Mudblood?" he demanded when she didn't respond and instead sat in the chair opposite him.

"Are you aware that you've a son, Dolohov?" Hermione asked him quietly, wondering suddenly if Dmitri had even been born before Dolohov had been caught and imprisoned.

His eyes narrowed on her hatefully for her question and her less than aggressive reaction to his foul language.

"Of course I'm aware," he growled. "What's it to you, bitch?"

Hermione sighed, ignoring the insults for the time being.

"I'm fostering him," Hermione replied evenly. "Dmitri will be moving into my home along with the children of Fenrir Greyback, and Thorfinn Rowle's son."

"Over my dead body," Dolohov snarled, shooting to his feet and looming over her across the table.

"If you insist," Hermione shrugged, before pulling her wand out and training it on him.

"Do it!" he snarled, leaning into it when she dug her wand into his neck threateningly, trying to make him back off.

Hermione stood quickly too, keeping him at wand point.

"I would, you know?" Hermione replied coldly, her hatred for this man pulsating through her skull, heady upon her tongue and singing in her blood. "Gladly."

"No mudblood filth is raising my son," he snarled, obviously not afraid of her despite the gouge she was making in his flesh.

"I'm raising Dmitri," Hermione smirked at him cruelly. "He asked me to pass along his greetings, you know? He was very pleased at the idea of meeting me, and of living with me. He even grew upset when he thought the hopes of his being adopted by me had been dashed when Lucian was a little cross over things in his misunderstanding. Dmitri asked me to say hello to his Daddy for him when he heard I'd be coming here."

Dolohov unleashed a string of foul Russian curses, his dark eyes flashing with hatred at he glared at her.

"You will  _not_  contaminate by boy with your filth,  _Lisitsa_ ," he growled.

"He's going to grow up calling me, 'Mummy'," Hermione replied, taunting him now, unable to help it. Her hatred for this man was a palpable, living thing.

She wanted to kill him; would do so gladly. He'd killed Remus. He'd killed the Prewett twins, Molly's brothers. He'd murdered countless others in his zealous urge to purge the world of muggleborns and blood traitors, and in his devout following of Voldemort. He'd even almost killed her in the Department of Mysteries and if ever there was anyone whose life she would gleefully end, it was that of Antonin Dolohov.

"He'll come to me when he skins his knees and needs someone to kiss them better. He'll ask me to tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight. He'll proudly come home from the muggle pre-school I send him to, showing off whatever new thing he's learned, thrilled to have an adult care enough to praise him when he does something good. He'll be  _nothing_  like his mad-man of a father. I'll make sure of that," Hermione goaded, her eyes narrowed hatefully, taunting him and hoping that the very ideas she put forward would cause him pain.

Dolohov lunged as far forward as he could while still chained, her wand digging into his throat and leaving a mark. Hermione narrowed her eyes hatefully, making her move. As much as she wanted to Avada him, she needed his 'permission' to get custody of Dmitri. Before he could begin spewing more insults or attempt to wandlessly hex her, Hermione seized hold of his beard, reached up on her toes and snogged him soundly on the mouth.

He seemed so shocked by the move that he didn't actually react to the feel of her tongue in his mouth until she was almost pulling away. The hot slide of his tongue against hers titillated and disgusted her in equal measure. Her grip on his beard kept him from pulling away when he recalled who she was and how much he wanted to murder her, but chained to the table he could neither pull her closer, nor shove her off him.

When she'd snogged him sufficiently enough to get 'permission' Hermione pulled away, wiping her mouth before spitting on the floor in disgust. Dolohov flinched slightly at the extremely unladylike display.

"What the fuck was  _that_?" he asked, seeming slightly bewildered and out of breath.

Hermione slanted a glare in his direction even as she stepped around her chair and crossed to the door, ready to leave.

" _Lisitsa_!" Dolohov hissed, trying to get her to answer him when she knocked on the inside of the door, indicating to Stebbins that she was ready to go.

"Any messages for your son, Dolohov?" Hermione asked. "Oh, sorry. My mistake. Any message you'd like me to pass along to  _my_  son?"

Dolohov cursed colourfully for a moment.

"What have you done?" he asked. "Why did you… You can't have my son, bitch!"

"He's mine," Hermione shrugged her shoulders unrepentantly. "Nothing you'd like to tell him?"

Dolohov opened his mouth like he might tell her to rot in hell but before he could speak, Stebbins opened the door to let Hermione out of the room. Realising he was about to miss the chance to pass anything along to his son, he paused before calling out to her.

"Wait… Tell him… fuck. Tell him I say  _Privet, synotchik_ _. Ya lyublyu tebya. Skoro uvidimsya._ "

Hermione narrowed her eyes on the man as he spoke in Russian. She didn't know enough of the language to know what it meant.

"I won't be able to pronounce that," Hermione told him truthfully.

He narrowed his eyes on her for a moment, obviously suspecting she was being snarky, before he repeated the words slowly so that she might commit them to memory. Hermione made a mental note that to do his heritage justice, she was obviously going to have to ensure that Dmitri learned to speak Russian. She might have to learn it herself, to better teach him and to ensure that his father wasn't telling him things she didn't want the boy to know.

"I don't want you raising my son, Granger," Dolohov said when she nodded her head that she understood enough to pass the message along.

Hermione smirked at him. "Tough."

He cursed her foully the whole way out of the room, shouting after her even when the door was closed, leaving him locked inside, chained to the table. He even managed to fling a wandless hex after her, just as the door closed to block it.

**~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~**

Her last stop was Rowle and Hermione took a deep breath before she was allowed into the room where Rowle was waiting to receive his visitor. Unlike the trepidation she'd felt with the first two, her hands didn't shake as she walked into the room. She wasn't afraid of Rowle the way she'd been afraid of Dolohov and she wasn't nervous, as she'd been to face Fenrir.

Much the same as Dolohov had been, Thorfinn Rowle was chained to the table in the middle of the room. His long, thick mane of blond hair hung wildly, well-past his hulking shoulders. His beard had been trimmed neatly and he looked fresh-washed, his robes clean.

Both golden eyebrows shot toward his hairline when he realised just whom his visitor was.

"Princess?" he asked, surprised. Hermione scowled at the loathed nickname he'd fashioned for her at Hogwarts before trying to murder her.

"Superstar," Hermione needled in return, her voice thick with distaste as she sat down across from him and crossed one knee over the other, staring at him across the small space.

He smirked at her as though suddenly recalling the name she'd picked for him in return, seeming to find humour in the exchange.

"What brings you to see me, Princess?" Rowle asked. "Isn't often that I get visits from such royalty."

"Oh, bite me Rowle," Hermione huffed in frustration, having managed to forget how easily his stupid sense of humour irked her.

"Come closer and I will, witch," he smirked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Are you aware that you have a two year old son, Thorfinn?" Hermione asked, ignoring the suggestions and placing both hands flat upon the table, staring into those brilliant blue eyes that his son had inherited.

"Course I am," Rowle frowned. "What…? Why are you here? Is he hurt?"

Rowle leaned forward, all humour leaving his voice and his posture as his worry for his son took over.

"He's not hurt," Hermione held up a placating hand. "He's… were you aware that Becky Slewyn is dead?"

Thorfinn blinked at her for a moment, no emotion registering on his face.

"When?" he asked gruffly.

"I'm not sure, to be honest," Hermione frowned. "I didn't read the file that closely. In any case, Alrik's mother is now deceased and since you're in here…."

"Who's looking after my son?" Thorfinn asked, his brow furrowing with worry.

"He's been kept by the Ministry, up until today, along with Fenrir's Greyback's two sons and Dolohov's boy, in a facility where the children of incarcerated Death Eaters with no other free, living, or able family to raise them have been kept. Given how cute Alrik is, I don't imagine he's been there long. A number of the other children of Death Eaters in the same situation have been fostered. I've actually come today to let you know that I'll be fostering all four boys, Alrik included."

Rowle's brow furrowed, his blue eyes scanning her face in confusion.

"Why aren't any of Becky's family looking after him?" he asked.

"I don't know, Rowle," Hermione admitted. "My understanding is that with most of your extended family in Finland, and your father, along with most of the remaining Selwyn's in prison alongside you, there isn't anyone left to care for him. The four of them at the Ministry have been… severely neglected. They are left to their own devices, only checked on by a Healer once a month. Everything else – feedings, changes, bathing – that's all bee handled by the house elves and a little by Lucian."

"Lucian?" he asked and Hermione could tell from the way his fists clenched that he was angry but trying to control his temper. She knew it to be a spectacular temper, indeed, so she hoped he controlled it long enough to get her through this.

"Lucian Greyback. The boys I'll be fostering are Lucian – he's seven – and his baby brother, Ranulf, who is fifteen months old. Dmitri Dolohov is almost three and, as you undoubtedly know, Alrik has recently turned two. As the oldest, and having been kept in the facility the longest, Lucian helps the younger boys, but mostly they're very cut off from other people. I plan to take them all in and foster them until such time as their fathers are released or until they're grown."

"You're a mudblood," Rowle said, as though that mattered.

"You're an idiot," she shrugged, deciding that if they were stating simple facts, she'd begin with the most obvious one.

"Why are you here, Princess? Just to tell me that my wife is dead and my son's an orphan because I'm locked up? You can't claim him for yourself."

"I  _am_  claiming him," Hermione replied, narrowing her eyes on the huge wizard coolly. "I could no sooner leave any of those boys in that place than I could abide anyone receiving such poor treatment, even those like you, who deserve it."

"You want to raise my son?" he asked, eyeing her strangely at the steely resolve he could hear in her voice. "Greyback's boys? Dolohov's? We've all tried to murder you, Princess. What motivation could you possibly have to care for the spawn of such men?"

Hermione sighed, leaning back in her chair and eyeing the blond across the table.

"Honestly?" she asked, lifting one eyebrow. He nodded. "I want to raise them because I hate the feeling I live with every day knowing that I've parents out there who don't have a clue who I am and so don't know that they're supposed to give a damn about me. I hate the idea of those boys – of anyone – living with the pain of being orphaned that way. I also have the time, the inclination, and the logic to look past the prejudice those boys have faced because of who their fathers are and all that you lot have done. Right now they are being punished because of you lot. They're neglected. They're unloved. They're ignored. They're starved for attention and stimulation and anyone to teach them how to be human beings, let alone to teach them how to grow up to be well-mannered young men within wizarding society."

Thorfinn eyed her across the table, leaning forward slowly and resting his palms on the table, unclenching his fists to flatten them against the smooth, worn wood.

"You're barely grown yourself, Princess," he told her quietly. " _I_  was too young when Alrik was born and I've got six years on you. You're, what? Nineteen? Twenty?"

"I'm twenty-three," Hermione corrected him. "And before you ask, I'm unmarried and not even seeing anyone in any romantic sense. However I have a house where I can raise those boys beyond the reach of the press, and I've family and friends willing to support me and assist me as I do this."

Thorfinn tipped his head to one side, those bright blue eyes seeming to dive right into her very soul, searching for answers to questions he hadn't asked.

"Why throw your life away?" he asked quietly. "For all that I recall teasing you and almost killing you, Princess, even I can admit that you were alarmingly bright at twelve. I don't imagine you've grown stupid as you aged. You could do anything you wanted, mudblood or not. You're brighter than just about anyone I've ever met and you're the witch who helped Potter take down the Dark Lord. You just say the word and doors will open for you wherever you want to go and whatever you want to do. Why would you risk it all, your entire future and probably a very real shot at being Minister for Magic one day, to raise the children of men who tried to murder you?"

Hermione sighed, surprised that of the three men she'd met with today, Rowle would be the one to ask such questions.

"No one else will," Hermione said softly. "The daughters of Death Eaters – like Yaxley's daughter – were all fostered out. Greyback's boys… Honestly, Rowle, the younger of those two didn't even have a  _name_  until I gave him one this morning. I don't think you understand the amount of prejudice those kids are facing. It's not just a matter of you lot being Death Eaters, murderers or what have you. Those poor boys are being shunned. Ranulf's mother was raped to conceive him and no one wanted to even name the boy. Lucian, understandably, has had a hard time being fostered because of what he is. Turning half-way into a wolf every full moon isn't exactly the most appealing trait a child can have. Dmitri, I'm sure, has been left where he is because Dolohov's crimes are well known and because I suspect the boy is frighteningly intelligent. Alrik…"

Hermione's eyes softened as she recalled the way the little blond boy had toddled over and sat himself in her lap, playing with her curls.

"You're known for setting everything ablaze, Rowle. I suspect that even if anyone were game enough to consider fostering him and risking your wrath, they feared the idea of having to face you to get custody of him."

Thorfinn's brow furrowed slightly. "And yet you're here."

Hermione nodded gently. "And I've more reason to hate you than most," she said. "Look, the fact is that there are only a few ways to gain custody of a child when they're made wards of the Ministry. You have to give consent to have me raise him."

"And you think that coming here and asking nicely will get it?" he lifted on eyebrow.

"I think there's more than one form of consent," Hermione replied quietly.

Something flickered across his face.

"I'll not give you written or verbal consent, Princess. If you want to raise my boy, you'll have to get permission another way."

Hermione suspected that, like Greyback, he knew she'd have to snog him or be intimate with him in order to gain permission to raise Alrik. And that he knew she'd have to come back every month to reconfirm that permission. He wasn't going to tell her she could raise the boy when he could score a snog every month and ensure he had a visitor every month for the foreseeable future.

Leaning forward once more, Hermione fixed her eyes on his lips. He leaned back out of reach, smirking slightly.

"You'd really do it, wouldn't you?" he asked. "You want to raise my son bad enough that you'll forget my attempts on your life and what a bastard I was to you at school. That you'll snog me stupid and waltz your pretty little arse out of here to take him on home with you."

Hermione hated the fact that a blush climbed her cheeks at the vaguely flirtatious tone in his voice.

"Would you prefer that I leave him in the custody of the Ministry, where he will fail to develop normally, not learning to talk or to walk properly? Not learning how to dress himself or how often he should bathe?" Hermione challenged.

"Not at all, Princess," he smirked. "I want someone to raise my boy right until they let me out of this place and I can do it myself."

"Are you up for parole?" Hermione frowned at him.

"Not for another five years," he shook his head. "But I reckon they'll grant parole when the time comes. Then what, Princess? You going to just give my boy up when he'll spend the next five years calling you 'Mummy'?"

Hermione's heart clenched at the very idea.

"No," she admitted. Already the idea of letting any of those little boys go hurt her and she hadn't even spent more than twenty minutes with them.

"Cute, isn't he? Thorfinn smirked. "So cute that you're already attached. But if you want to raise him, you're going to have to snog me and come on back every month to do it again and to keep me appraised on how he's growing. And I'd reckon, that after five years of doing that, you might just be amenable to the idea of letting me give you one of my sons all your own."

Hermione's cheeks turned scarlet against her will.

"I've no interest in shagging you or birthing you another son, Rowle. Not when you can't even raise the one you've already got," she said coldly.

"Leave then," he shrugged, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Leave without permission and let someone else raise my boy."

Hermione hated him in that moment because he knew he had her. She wouldn't risk the idea of anyone else taking in Alrik and she wouldn't leave the boy behind when she'd promised him – promised all four boys – that she would raise them.

"I can't do that," Hermione said through gritted teeth.

"Determined little thing, aren't you?" Thorfinn smirked at her. "Always were."

"If you want this ridiculous form of permission to be instigated, you're going to have to lean forward, Superstar," Hermione said, reaching for a little bravado.

His grin widened into something decidedly wicked.

"No."

"No?" Hermione frowned. "You  _want_  me to leave Alrik alone at the Ministry? I've already got permission from Greyback and Dolohov."

"You want to raise my boy, Princess, then you better come here," he said, widening his arms as far as his chains allowed.

"I'm not coming that close," Hermione protested. "You could crush me with your bare hands, chained to the table or not, and we both know it."

"Princess, if you expect me to trust you to raise my son and treat him well, you're going to have to learn to trust me, too," he argued. "So come here. I won't put his life in your hands if you won't put yours in mine."

"The last time my life was anywhere near your hands, you almost killed me," she reminded him, frustrated even as she got to her feet.

"That was ten years ago," he rolled his eyes.

"It was five years ago in that coffee shop," she argued.

"You haven't paid for that memory charm, yet," he nodded.

"You know I used a memory charm on you?" she frowned. "But, undoing them is…."

"Excruciating," Rowle finished for her. "Believe me, Princess, I'm aware. So how am I to trust you to raise my kid when that's how you treated me?"

"I'd never harm a child!" Hermione said indignantly.

"Prove it," he shrugged. "Climb into my lap and snog me like you're trying to conceive him with me yourself, witch. Or go home and let someone else see to my boy."

"I'm not sitting in your lap, Rowle," Hermione said, standing and stomping her foot in frustration.

He simply stared. And waited. Narrowing her eyes, Hermione made to stomp around the table but he shook his head.

"No way you're climbing into my lap from the side with these chains on me, Princess. Crawl across that table," he smirked.

"You're enjoying this," Hermione accused him.

"Course I am," he smirked. "Been locked up a long time. And since I didn't even know Becky was dead, I don't think I need to explain that my wife wasn't fond of me."

"Gee, I wonder why?" Hermione snaked coldly.

"Because she was forced to marry me by the Dark Lord when he meddled with all his followers, wanting heirs," Thorfinn shrugged despite the rhetorical nature of her barb. "She got tired of fucking me in sixth year and only did it for the sake of keeping herself alive. Been a long time, Granger. So don't be stingy."

"I despise you," Hermione informed him, pleased she was wearing jeans as she perched her bum on the edge of the table before spinning and using her heels to hook over the edge of the table on his side and dragging herself forward. She refused to crawl the way he wanted her to.

His hands, still in their chains, gripped her ankles, helping to pull her toward himself until she'd slipped her legs either side of his waist, in the gaps created where he was chained to the table.

"All the way, Princess," he said, his hands settling on her hips and lifting her off the table and onto his lap with all the ease Hermione might've had at lifting Crookshanks.

His strength scared her, if she was honest, and she wondered why he alarmed her when Greyback hadn't, despite the fact that Greyback had broken his chains and pinned her to the wall. Thorfinn hummed appreciatively when she was sat upon his groin firmly, straddling him as though he were a horse she planned to ride. His hands trailed from their grip on her hips, shifting around and down to settle upon her arse.

Hermione narrowed her eyes all the more when he used the grip to roll her against himself whilst arching up underneath her, creating friction.

"Must you?" she asked dryly, forced to rest her hands against his chest when the movement threatened her balance.

"I really must," Thorfinn assured her, smirking wickedly and obviously enjoying her annoyance almost as much as he was apparently enjoying having her straddle him. At least he was enjoying it if the rapidly growing lump under her was any indication.

Figuring that she might as well get this over with as quickly as possible, lest he enjoy himself a little too much, Hermione sighed and leaned closer, intent on snogging him. He was chuckling darkly even as their lips met and Hermione hated herself for the little thrill of desire that rushed through her. Despite evidence to the contrary, he didn't steal the kiss from her lips or force one upon her. He coaxed one from her lips slowly, tenderly, as though he were kissing an adored lover rather than a prior enemy come prickly ally.

His lips were soft and warm against hers, just brushing lips on lips for the longest time until Hermione's eyes slid closed and, unbidden, she found herself leaning into the sweet sensation. His tongue flicked out carefully, tracing the shape of her lower lip and then the seam of her lips until Hermione parted them, her tongue slipping out to meet his tentatively. The feeling that rushed through her when he deepened the kiss, still rolling her hips in his hands, grinding against her hungrily, stole her breath.

Hermione hated the soft little sound he coaxed from her as he took his time devouring her. For a man known for his quick temper and wild, rash actions in a fight, he was methodical in his seduction. Hermione hated him a little for that, too.

When she finally pulled back her brain was thoroughly fuzzy with desire and her body throbbed and ached needily. She found her fingers tangled into his wild blond hair and her breath came in sharp little gasps as she blinked her eyes open to stare at him. Thorfinn hummed appreciatively as he opened his eyes slowly to meet her gaze, another wicked grin curling his lips.

"Seems I'm not the only one who hasn't been laid in a while, eh, Princess?" he teased huskily and Hermione blushed crimson.

"Let go of me now," she commanded, hating how breathless she sounded.

"Should've known all that time that it was unresolved sexual tension causing that spark between us," Rowle murmured, looking thoughtful, rolling her hips against himself and arching into her one more time.

"It wasn't. There is no spark," Hermione assured him.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, Princess," Rowle laughed as Hermione began pushing at his shoulders and wriggling in his lap, trying to sit up and get free of him.

He lifted her easily, setting her back onto the table and actually letting her go.

"Do me a favour, Princess?" he practically purred as Hermione extracted herself from his grip, trying to slide backward across the table beyond his reach.

"What?" she asked warily.

Thorfinn smirked.

"Wear a dress next month?" he asked, his eyes glittering with lust as he caught the backs of her knees before she could pull away completely. He leaned down between them, as though imagining burrowing his face between her thighs were she wearing a dress.

Hermione purposely snapped her legs closed around his face, catching him about the ears with her knees.

"Not a chance," she retorted, pulling out of his grip and sliding to the far side of the desk when he began to laugh once more.

"Tease," he accused her. "Fine, but I do have a genuine favour to ask."

Hermione narrowed her eyes on him, straightening her shirt as she stood once more, preparing to leave.

"Since what we just did grants you access to everything I've got, I need you to go to Rowle Tower – watch out for the trick step seventh from the top on the first flight, yeah? Go up the stairs and into the study at the top. It's warded to keep nosy Selwyns out, so keep your wand on you. The password is ' _framganga_ '. Say it."

Hermione frowned at him.

"Is that Old Norse?" she asked curiously.

Thorfinn nodded. "Say it, woman. If you mispronounce it, you'll get hexed."

"Why would I need the password to access your study. I won't be living in Rowle Tower. The barbarism of this law that means snogging allows a witch access to everything a man has, including his children, is beyond ludicrous. The only reason I'm not pushing to have it outlawed immediately is because it allows me to raise the boys. I don't want your house, or your study."

"You need to get into the study to get the key to my Gringott's vault," he argued.

"I don't want your money, either, Rowle," Hermione frowned at him. "I have plenty."

"Not enough to raise four hungry boys, you don't," he assured her. "I assume that you'll be quitting whatever job you currently have in order to raise them when they're all so young?"

Hermione scowled at him. "I wasn't planning on it, actually."

"You're going to leave them all with a babysitter?" he challenged. "Why bother fostering them if you're just going to treat them the same way the Ministry does, Princess? Look, I get it that you're a feminist and all about equal rights and all that, but you'll be raising  _four_  wizards under the age of ten. That's a full time job, Granger. Especially if you want to avoid botching it. Just get the key to my bloody vault and take whatever you need, there's no way you'll make a dent in my inheritance. As for not living at the Tower, you're mad. Greyback is hardly going to have anything better than a mud-hut and Dolohov's a distrustful bastard. I wouldn't want you anywhere near his place, let alone kids there. The cursed objects alone will kill you all inside of a week."

"I have a house," Hermione protested. "Far away from where the media can spy on us. I won't be accused of gold-digging by taking over your house when I take on those boys."

Thorfinn grit his teeth for a moment, anger flashing in his eyes before it ebbed just as suddenly.

"Always such a stubborn little thing," he murmured, eyeing her strangely once more.

Hermione folded her arms.

"Repeat the password, Princess.  _Framganga_ ," he pronounced it for her.

"Why?" she demanded.

"Because there's something else in that office I want you to retrieve to bring with you next month," he said. "A pensieve."

Hermione's breath left her in a rush at the idea as he said it. He wanted to be able to watch the memories of his son growing up, even if he couldn't be there in person.

" _Framganga,"_  she attempted, not bothering to put up any more of a fight.

" _Framganga_ ," he repeated, stressing the syllables carefully.

"You really are descended from Vikings, aren't you?" she sighed, repeating the password again until he nodded that she'd gotten it right.

"Yep," he smirked. "Now, while you're fetching that pensieve, get the bloody vault key and use whatever you need, Princess. I mean it. You're raising my son, witch, and I want you to do it right. Don't half-arse it scrimping on things those kids need and don't half-arse raising them by trying to juggle a career, too. Use what you need, live in the Tower if you want to. No one will stop you. As long as you're snogging me every month, you have all the rights of being my wife. Hell, you could sign your name  _Hermione Rowle_  and the Ministry would be forced to accept it."

"If that's the case I feel that Hermione Granger-Greyback-Dolohov-Rowle is a bit of a mouthful," Hermione replied sarcastically.

"Is a bit," Thorfinn laughed. "But it's technically your legal title as long as you're snogging the three of us, you know?"

"How does no one know about this law?" Hermione frowned. "People snog all the time."

"All the old pureblood families know," Thorfinn shrugged, "There's a reason marriages are still arranged and people value the importance of chastity in the wizarding world. Only works in the favour of witches, though. To keep us debauchers in line, see? I could go snog some heiress and she'd still be entitled to all  _my_  shit, not the other way around."

"Then snogging the three of you technically classifies me as a polyamorist," Hermione frowned.

Thorfinn shrugged his huge shoulders. "Sure does. Polyandry isn't illegal in the wizarding world, you know?"

"I could have three husbands in the legal sense?" Hermione frowned.

Thorfinn shrugged again. "Well, see that's where is gets complicated. The law works in your favour that, yeah, if you snog all three of us you're entitled to our money, our homes, and our kids. But it's not in the sense that you  _own_  them … it's, uh… well, technically, when the curse was instigated, it was meant to protect women in the sense of ensuring that no witch who got knocked up by a married man would go hungry or uncared for, see? So this thing you're doing allows you have access not because you'd own any of them or own us… but because it means that  _we_  own you. In the wizarding world marriage is still very much about the witch being given to the wizard in the basest sense, Princess. You snogging me doesn't mean you own me, it means I own you the same way I'd own a dog or a house-elf, technically. You get all the perks of accessing everything else I own, but you also have the human rights to be treated like a princess. Literally. The curse, when it was cast, was very much for ensuring we wizards kept it in out trousers to avoid ending up with what legally counted as ten wives all mooching off us and being treated like royalty – if we could afford it."

Hermione frowned.

"But… that's so… I mean it's good that should a witch be raped, she would be entitled to a portion of the offender's money and such things to raise a child should one be conceived. But it seems very much like recipe for disaster. It practically invites gold-digging tarts to throw themselves at you. With things like Love Potion on the market, surely it ought to have been outlawed."

"The use of Love Potion negates the magic that flares, causing the link – the bond – to refrain from forming. The kiss has to be consensual."

"But I…" Hermione frowned. She'd pounced on Dolohov, rather than having him agree to kiss her.

"You had to grab Dolohov," Thorfinn smirked. "Thought so. Did he kiss you back, or just fight you off?"

"He kissed back, eventually, when the shock wore off," Hermione admitted, blushing.

"There you go, then. It worked. If both parties willingly participate, the bond forms and the witch gets everything the wizard has."

"But it's so one-sided," Hermione frowned at the wizard sitting before her, looking amused. "I mean, what's to stop me from going to your house, raiding it of everything you have and never returning. It wouldn't count as robbery because I'd be entitled to it at the time when I took it. And it's entirely in favour of the witch. You don't have any rights or get any perks as a result of this thing. I mean, sure,  _this_  time you do because I'm not a gold-digging tramp, I just need permission to raise your son, but what about in instances where witches snog people and make off with their money? You get nothing."

"Get a decent snog out of it," Thorfinn smirked, shrugging. "And there's a registry at the Ministry, any witch found abusing the system in such a manner would be prosecuted. Every time a bond like this forms, it's magically recorded at the Ministry. Whomever you've snogged will be listed as someone who is considered your paramour, Princess. Most people think nothing of it if nothing's claimed, but for a month after snogging any wizard you've ever kissed, you're technically listed as his wife, you know?"

"Even if he's already married?" Hermione frowned.

Thorfinn nodded. "There are books on all this in the library at the Tower," he said. "Feel free to peruse them, Princess. You are, after all, technically my wife."

"Don't say that," Hermione shuddered.

"Hermione Rowle has a nice ring to it, Princess," he teased.

"It doesn't. And I'd never give up my own surname."

"Hermione Granger-Rowle sounds pretty good, too," he shrugged. "And you're now the legal mother of my son. Fighting the magic is useless, love."

Hermione frowned at him. "I'm looking into this law. It's barbaric and something needs to be done about it."

"You think centuries of wizardkind haven't tried to amend it?" he raised his eyebrows. "This particular 'law' isn't a law at all. It's a curse cast over all of wizard-kind, laid down by Morgana and Nimue at the dawn of all wizards when Merlin was caught shagging both of them, Princess. There's no undoing this curse."

"We'll see," Hermione muttered.

"Who's going to undo it, Granger? You?" he arched on eyebrow at her. "If you do, you'll lose custody of those boys unless the three of us grant it verbally."

"It would make more sense for you to just do that, you know," Hermione pointed out.

"Then what guarantee would I have that you'll come back every month to see me, Princess? How will I know how Alrik's developing if you don't come back?"

"I'd come back regardless," she frowned. "I wouldn't keep you and your son apart – any of you – even if you are all wretches. Those boys love their fathers and I'd enjoy the guilt you'd all feel knowing they were growing up without you."

"Sadistic little bitch, aren't you?" Thorfinn smirked at her. "You'd have made a decent Death Eater, in another life."

"I champion the rights of others," she pointed out.

"So do we. The rights of the wizarding purebloods to hold position above the commoners who muddy up their bloodlines by breeding with muggles."

"My parents were both muggles, you idiot!" Hermione snapped. "And if not for me, your son would grow up without learning to talk properly."

"We all make exceptions, Princess. I'd make one for you," he winked at her. Hermione scowled. "Pretty little thing like you, with brains like yours? You have to know that almost every pureblood would've made an exception for  _you_. We all even took bids on who'd get to keep you as a pet, had our side won the war."

" _Excuse me_?" Hermione hissed, her eyes widening in horror.

Rowle smirked at her.

"Don't look so surprised, Princess. Every bloodline needs a random injection of new blood to keep the inbreeding from backfiring. More of the old Houses than I'd reckon you want to know about bid to keep you for themselves. We're all about purity, but inbreeding is bad business and muggle blood can be overlooked for the sake of raw magical power, which you, Baby-girl, have in droves. Best be grateful your side won, actually. You'd have been auctioned off to the highest bidder, and I reckon that kid of Malfoy would've put in a bid. They've more money than anyone so they'd have won, Dark Lord's favour or not."

Hermione reeled at his words. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to call him a liar. She wanted to hex him for suggesting such things.

"You're saying…" she frowned, trailing off. "But the entire war was waged against the idea of people like me being a part of the wizarding world."

"You know a better solution than squirrelling you all away to carry on our bloodlines with powerful witches? The weak ones were done away with, of course, and the wizards. Don't need those. But powerful muggleborn witches are rare, Princess. The things that would've been done to  _you_ ," he shook his head slowly, his eyes trailing over her from head to foot. "You'd have been used up like a brood mare, a new kid fucked into you every year."

"The whole point of the war was that my blood is too dirty to consider it," she frowned.

"Aye, but you're powerful, Princess. We overlook dirt for power. You think we  _wanted_ the likes of a half-blood orphan leading us?" he raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Aye, we knew he was a half-blood but the Dark Lord was as powerful as he was ruthless. Power trumps blood, every time."

Hermione shook her head, disgusted at the very idea that the Death Eaters believed blood mattered to begin with.

"I'm leaving now," she said.

"Don't forget the password, Princess. And watch that trick step, yeah?" he smirked at her as though he hadn't just been discussing an alternate, grisly fate for her should the war have gone the other way.

"It's unlikely I'll be attending your house in the next month, Rowle," Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You should. Don't know how long Becky's been dead, but I'd say there's a decent amount of Alrik's gear still at the Tower. Toys, clothes, that sort of thing. And I mean it about the vault. Use it however you want."

"I'm not going to use your money to spoil Alrik when the other boys don't have the same privilege," Hermione said, exasperated.

"Use it for all four, Princess," he rolled his eyes. "I owe Greyback a few favours, and Dolohov's like an uncle to me, anyway. And it's not like you want to go digging around in  _his_  place. Been empty too long after his last stint in this shit-hole. Never know what you'll come across. You need money, you use what's in my vault, Granger. I mean it."

Hermione sighed, deciding against arguing further and knowing she'd do as she saw fit, rather than as he commanded, anyway.

"I'll see you next month, Superstar," she said, heading for the door and knocking on it until Stebbins unlocked it to let her out.

"Don't forget the pensieve," Rowle called after her. "And the dress!"

Hermione flipped him the bird for his last comment and his roaring laughter followed her all the way out of the prison.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian Translations:
> 
> Lisitsa - Vixen.
> 
> Privet, synotchik - Hi, sonny.
> 
> Ya lyublyu tebya - I love you.
> 
> Skoro uvidimsya - I'll see you soon.
> 
> Norse Translation:
> 
> Framganga - Advance.


End file.
